Who'd Have Thought?
by lusciousmalloy
Summary: Harry contemplates how his relationship with Draco got to where it is. Harry/Draco slash.


**A/N: **Don't mind me, just cleaning up my works. I do believe this is my earliest written piece I am willing to submit here. They're still one of my favourites, these two. I may or may not write more for them. The movie is out now so perhaps I could do a version based off that ending. Or the RoR scene, y'all know what I'm talkin' about. *winkwinknudgenudge* Enjoy the Drarry, and more feedback means a greater likelihood of me writing more of them. Not that I'm bribing you. But I totally am.

**Who'd Have Thought**

**By Caitlin "Luscious Malloy" H-**

Who'd have thought I'd be here, in this position, with him?

I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around it - though my legs are wrapped around him quite nicely. Years ago I would have been disgusted at the thought; yet here we are, on his bed, together.

I'd always thought about how I'd love to wipe that smirk off his face... this was not the method I had in mind. I can't deny; I love it. How could I not?

Some nights I get to take control, and others I let him. It doesn't really matter to either of us – though sometimes we make a game of it.

I think that night, the night Voldemort died, was the night everything changed. After something that major, it is hard for things to stay the same.

His ego was essentially destroyed. He had picked the wrong side of the war - though to be fair it wasn't entirely his choice – and he'd gotten away with it. To some that may have seemed like a good thing, but I don't think he thought of it that way. Anyone who was on his side was rotting in prison, and he was forced to be surrounded by those who despised him. His entire family just sat at the table in the Great Hall, avoiding eye contact with everyone and everything but their feet.

His white-blonde hair was dirty and out of place; his face was covered in mud, cuts, and bruises; his Slytherin robes were shredded and burned. His blue eyes were no longer ice cold, but dark and haunting, and his lips were not in their usual smirk or sneer. He looked confused and vulnerable, and for a moment, I didn't hate him. As I watched him from the other side of the room, I actually felt sorry for him. He looked so... pathetic. I'd never seen him like that before.

He never thanked me for saving him, because even at a time like that, someone like him could never admit to being wrong. That was one thing I knew for sure; I'd never hear an apology, nor would I hear any words of gratitude come from his mouth. At least not directed at me.

Even if he never apologized, while I looked at him from across the hall, I decided that I forgave him. It may or may not have been the moment that changed things between us. He glanced up and caught me staring at him, then quickly went back to examining his hands. I decided then that I wouldn't be angry at him for anything he had done in the past, and that I didn't hate him. I couldn't hate him, not when he was in such a state. The only thing I felt for him at that moment was pity.

We never actually spoke that night, but I think it was clear; our childhood feud was over.

Immediately following the war everything was celebratory, and public. I hated being the center of attention, but Ginny, well, she loved it. It's understandable; she had always loved it when everyone's eyes were on her. I let her enjoy it for a while, but I knew our relationship could never last. I found my thoughts straying to colleagues during sex, which couldn't have been a good sign. Especially since they were male colleagues. I hadn't thought much of sexuality before, because being with a girl seemed natural, so I went with it. I was usually too busy to pay attention to whether or not they were attractive. They were nice, and they were pretty, but I never found them attractive. They weren't the ones I wanted to bring back to the bedroom.

Ginny and I broke up after about a year, and a year after that I graduated Auror School. It was another four years before I ever saw him again. We were 24 years old, and he had changed about as much as one could expect. His white-blonde hair was slicked back, his robes neat and wrinkle-free, his blue eyes icy and emotionless, and his lips were in a tight sneer. I realized then how much I had actually missed his sneer; his smirk; his overall smug attitude. It was really weird for me to have that realization, because I had previously been under the assumption that those features had been what annoyed me so greatly. I guess you just get used to things.

I approached him and started a friendly, civil conversation. He still had that attitude about him, but for once it wasn't directed at me. We spoke of normal things like work, and life in general since the war – not once bringing up our school days in fear of reigniting the old feud. It was nice, and I asked him if he wanted to meet up for lunch in the future. He was surprised, but politely agreed. I've never regretted rejecting him for Ron in our first year, but I regret not having a friendlier relationship with him. It was a shame it couldn't have been both ways, but that was in school. We were adults now and no longer had anything standing in our way of making a decent friendship; I wanted to get to know him better. We decided to meet the following week at the Leaky Cauldron.

Our lunch at the Leaky Cauldron went well, and we continued to meet up for lunches. As time went on I began to notice certain things. Like how his lips didn't just form sneers and smirks but, on occasion, smiles as well. I noticed how these smiles happened more and more frequently during our times together. I noticed how he bit the inside of his cheek when he was thinking of a reply to something I said, and how he scrunched up his nose at random times for God knows what reason. I asked him once; he told me he didn't know he did it.

I noticed how his back would straighten whenever someone new came into the room, which happened less and less as we spent more and more time together. He started to feel more comfortable around me, and I started to feel the same around him. We started sharing things deeper than work, secrets that we didn't feel we could share with anyone else. We actually had a lot in common, but at the same time we were very different people. It still amazes me that we became so close. We never actually referred to each other as friends, but we did start to call each other by first names. He said it first, a bit of a slip up one day. It took a moment to register in my mind, because I had never heard it before, and I pointed it out to him. He tried to shrug it off, but I swear there was a bit of a blush creeping up his neck.

I noticed how much I liked the sound of my name when he spoke it.

We went on that way for three years – Ron thought I was crazy, but Hermione was indifferent to it all. She didn't like him, but she had no issues with me liking him. She was the one to point out how much I liked him.

I began to notice other things about him. The length of his neck as he turned to look across the room. His scent as he leaned over the table to pick a piece of fluff off my robes. He smelt like a cool winter breeze, if that even has a scent.

It never really freaked me out until I started realizing other things, not about him, but about myself.

Like how I'd like kiss that neck. How I'd like to wake up to that smell. How I'd like to wake up to him and his smiles, which were still becoming more and more frequent. It got to the point where he never sneered.

I started to really like his smirk. Like it to the point where I felt choked up every time I saw it. I wanted to kiss him, but I wouldn't admit it to myself. Becoming friends, that was fine, but becoming something – anything – more. It confused me.

Just like he was the first to call me by my given name, he was the first to address our relationship – whatever it was.

It must have been five years since we started... what? Seeing each other? That didn't sound right; it implied that we were more than friends. Five years since we started hanging out - that sounded more appropriate.

It must have been five years since we started hanging out; I was closer with him than I had ever been with any other person. It was the strangest thing considering our previous rivalry, and if you had told me ten years prior, I would have thought you to be crazy. Maybe I was crazy. It would explain a lot.

He had invited me to his place for dinner, and as I prepared to go I seriously contemplated owling him to say I was sick. I wasn't, but the alternative was being alone with him, in his house, for at least a couple of hours. I shouldn't have wasted my time deciding whether or not to go, because in the end I would go – and I knew that. Though the idea of being alone with him frightened me, it excited me at the same time.

Once I got there everything seemed to go like every other get together. He wasn't nervous, and therefore I wasn't nervous. There were moments when he would do something, like lick his lips, and I would be momentarily distracted, dragged into daydreams that had been repeated in my mind often. But I'd always snap out of it too soon for him to notice, and if he did notice he never acknowledged it.

We had a generous amount of alcohol in both our glasses, which were constantly being magically refilled. I don't even remember the second half of the night, though I really wish I could. All I remember is drinking, laughing, and talking. Then it was morning.

Who'd have thought I'd wake up in his bed, just liked I'd dreamed.

The morning after was pretty awkward. We tried not to look at each other as we dressed, and continued to avoid eye contact as we made our way to the kitchen for breakfast. He invited me to stay, I assumed because it was the 'polite' thing to do. I didn't like how he was reacting. Sure, I was a little ashamed – but only because I couldn't remember what should have been one of the best nights of my life. He gave the impression that we had committed a crime the likes of murder. I supposed if you were highly religious, it could be viewed that way. But he was not the religious type.

It was the Great Hall all over again. He sat at the far end of the table, staring at his hands, possibly wishing he was anywhere else. He looked guilty, and I finally decided to ask him what was wrong. I tried to ask it in casual way, pretend nothing weird had happened between us. It took him a moment to reply, and when he did I was pretty surprised.

He apologized. He said that he was sorry for what had happened the previous night, and that he understood if I never wanted to see him again. I was speechless.

The longer I sat there gawking at him, the more uncomfortable he felt. Perhaps even more uncomfortable than that night in the Great Hall. Once I had come to my senses I asked him what the hell he was talking about. He explained how he fancied me and how he must have taken advantage of my drunken state. I assured him that he had been just as drunk, and that it was more likely I took advantage of him, then went on to explain how I fancied him as well.

We had a good laugh that morning. An awkward, just-realized-he-likes-me-back sort of laugh, but nonetheless, a laugh. From then on we decided to try out the whole 'dating' thing, and it actually works for us.

That brings us to the present. In his room, on his bed, my legs wrapped around his body. It isn't so unusual by this point – we have been dating for a few years now. Ron still doesn't like him, and he still hates Ron. Hermione is fine with him, if he would just forget his prejudiced ways. He tries with both of them – not very well mind you.

I sort of lied in the beginning, it isn't his bed, it's our bed. Hopefully so for years to come. If someone had told me, ten years ago, that I'd share the same bed as Draco Malfoy, well... who'd have thought?


End file.
